<Painters>
Eighty years, an old lady now, sitting on the front porch
Watching the clouds roll by
They remind her of her loved, how he left her, and of times long ago
When she used color carelessly, painted his portrait
A thousand times - or maybe just his smile -
And she and her carvas would follow him wherever he would go
'Cause they were painters and they were painting themselves a lovely world
Oil streaked daisies covered the living room wall
He put water-colored roses in her hair
He said,"Love, I love you, I want to give you mountains, the sunshine,
The sunset too
I want to give you everything as beautiful as you are to me."
'Cause they were painters and they were painting themselves a lovely world
So they sat down and made a drawing of their love, an art to live by
They painted every passion every home, created every beautiful child
In the winter they were painters and they were weavers of warmth,
In summer they were carpenters of love
They thought blue prints were too sad so they made them yellow
'Cause they were painters and they were painting themselves a lovely world
Until one day the rain fell as thick as black oil
And in her heart she knew something was wrong
She went running through the orchard screaming
"No God, don't take him from me!"
But by the time she got there, she feared he already had gone
She get to where he lay, water-colored roses in his hands for her
She threw them down screaming,
"Damn you man, don't leave me with nothing left behind
But these cold paintings, these cold portraits to remind me!"
He said:"Love, I leave, but only a little, try to understand
I put my soul in this life we created with these four hands
Love, I leave, but only a little, this word holds me still
My body may die now, but these paintings are real."
So many seasons came and many seasons went
And many times she saw her love's face watering the flowers,
Talking to these trees and singing to his children
And when the wind blew, she knew he was listing,
And how he seemed to laugh along,and how he seems to hold her
When she was crying
'Cause they were painters and they were painting themselves a lovely world
Eighty years, an old lady now, sitting on the front porch
Watching the clouds roll by, they remind her of her loved
How he left her and of times long ago, when she used to color carelessly
Painted his portrait a thousand times, or maybe just his smile
And she and her canvas would follow him wherever him would go
Yes, she and her carcas still follow
Because they are painters and they are painting themselves a lovely world
--
※ 發信站: 批踢踢實業坊(ptt.twbbs.org)
◆ From: dial179.2036519